The Hero with a peppermint ministry…

He flew helicopter rescue missions in Viet Nam…more than once. It was his duty. He loved his family. Loving them was beyond his duty, it was his joy. He was faithful to God and His Beloved Son. There was no question. He believed in prayer. He loved children. He loved people. And peppermints.

He always wanted to be a teacher, so, when he had the chance, he signed up to be a substitute and had a huge influence on hundreds of children each day for nearly a decade. He mostly stayed within the Pharr Elementary building in Snellville, GA because they kept him busy. On the rare day that he wasn’t called in, he would sit with the kids, eat lunch with a lonesome friend, or read with any number of students. Even the older crowd who didn’t “need” help still cherished reading with Mr. Weeks.

He handed out peppermints and soothed little souls with a smile or a hug. He was always joyful. He was heard to say, “This beats all, I served in Viet Nam, but you teachers, you are the ones in the trenches every day.”

He prayed. He kept the names of those who needed a prayer written down and he would make a daily trek to his church and pray for them in silent contemplation. He also made a daily trip to Kroger in his Cruiser to see what the manager had on “special” that day. That, and to get a lottery ticket. He won little victories here and there. Kept him in peppermint money.

He served his church through the children’s ministry and more. He would do anything asked of him if he was able. He loved children. And they loved him. They would do anything for him and as he grew weaker with cancer, they did do things for him. Mostly, they prayed, which was the best gift he could ever receive. His bedside was filled with loving notes and prayers from his young friends.

He loved his family and was proud of each child and grandchild. He loved his wife whom he had just lost a few months prior. He missed her. He fought cancer with the tenacity of a soldier until his wife was seen properly to her eternal rest so that he could join her when he was finished with the battle.

He walked the walk each day. His kind words, smiles and genuine love for his community was the stuff of everyday heroes. It was as much a part of who he was as the Viet Nam Veteran hat that he wore each day. He never forgot those boys either.

Children grew as excited as Christmas each year as they prepared for the annual Veteran’s Day Program at Pharr ES. They sang for parents, grandparents and other family members who had served, but they sang loudest and proudest for Mr. Weeks.

Our Grayson, GA community is saddened and mourns their fallen hero, Richard Weeks. Cancer took him away in body, but his spirit lives on in each one of the people whose lives he touched so completely.

He remained a teacher to the very last. His lessons came in the tender mercies that he so subtly gifted along with those puffy, red-and-white-striped peppermints… Perhaps he was just covering all bases…providing a refreshing boost for both spirit and body. That would be his way.

Handing over the wheel…

Drew and his friend Madison celebrate their Learner's Permits in January of 2014.

Drew and his friend Madison celebrate getting their Learner’s Permits.

From The Bleachers…Handing over the wheel
Beth Volpert

This month, my view from the bleachers has been concentrated on the last few weeks of driver training for my 15 year old son. While it sounds a little bit scary, the whole experience didn’t turn out to be as bad as I thought it might have been.

When my son was little, he would admonish anyone else who dared drive my “mommy van” by saying, “NO! Mommy drive the wheel.” These days, mommy doesn’t drive the wheel very often.

We started out last January with his learner’s permit. No big deal. Just a test, a photo and you are off. Well, that and the paperwork proving he is who he is. With permit safely tucked into his wallet, he slipped into the driver’s seat and commenced to steer his way around the parking lot for a while before we moved on to the fairly vacant streets of a new homes subdivision. A few herky-jerky stops and starts gave way to relatively smooth sailing.

Fast forward a year…my son has driven the route to and from our high school so many times that I am sure it seems like old hat, but he always remembers to turn to me and say, “I’m not complacent, anything can happen.” That makes a mom feel a little better. That, and my dad has been the same patient teacher he was when I was learning to drive. That makes me feel better too.

Drew's early driving...

Drew’s early driving…

In the past year, our learner has taken on Monteagle in Tennessee, the awkward, partially paved I-75 stretch from Gainesville to Tampa in the pouring rain, and Snellville. Snellville has been the worst. Anyone who can navigate the narrow roads and insane pace there can drive just about anywhere. He prefers Florida-flat, wide-open and sunny. The sunny part is just a bonus.

Now that his birthday has arrived, we move forward into a whole new realm. One in which my seat in the bleachers-or, in this case, in the passenger seat-is coming to an end. The days of digging my nails into the seat cushion and biting my tongue are giving way to stepping lightly around my house looking for things to do in order to assuage my nervous energies until the boy turns safely into the drive. It is a right of passage and one that I believe is best begun early so that he gets as much drive time in familiar places as possible before I blink again and he is off to college or camp or on tour opening for RUSH. I guess if he is on tour, he won’t be driving…maybe mama will get her CDL… just in case she needs to “drive the wheel” again.

Remembering Friends into the new year…

It is rare that I am at a loss for words, but one of the lessons I learned from my friend, Stan Anderson, was that writing heals the soul. The words will come sooner than the healing.

This holiday season, the alumni of South Gwinnett and Brookwood said goodbye to three very special friends we have known for a very long time. Some have known each other since grade school.

Simon “Chopper” Ebrey lost a hard fought cancer battle in December. His skills on bass were legend and he remained a loyal and true friend to those around him. His desire to fly was realized and he logged many hours in the clouds. He is free to fly without pain now.

Amy Green joined her sister, Beth, after a stroke this Christmas. She has left a gaping hole in the lives of her family and friends. Above all, she was a caregiver. She literally gave loving care to all those who needed her and kept tender mercies for the hurting. She is pictured with her sister from early 1980’s when they were both in the Comet Band of Stars.

Stan Anderson left us at the New Year. His story is one of brotherhood. He loved his friends and family and could be counted on for much. He brought humor to the table and loved playing trivia with his friends. He was a published author and, like the title of his book, he has passed the bar one final time.

Blessings friends. You are already missed. Rest.

Two nuns and a writer…

Monastery of the Visitation in Snellville, GA  (photo Arch. of Atl)

Monastery of the Visitation in Snellville, GA
(photo Arch. of Atl)

Two nuns and a writer walk into the local lab for some bloodwork…The comedy of errors that led me to today’s “chat with nuns” was pretty frustrating, but proof that God always has a little plan in store.

As usual, I was running late, but the good news was that my kid DID make the bus and I could proceed without unnecessary additional time in the car-rider line to drop him off. I was driving my mother’s car because mine was on day three of being in the shop. Somehow, I managed to go to the wrong lab-twice! And I still had to have blood drawn, which isn’t all that fun. However, it did land me in a waiting room chair between two nuns and that was an experience in itself. Sitting there caused me to reflect on my morning and I was caught up in the thought that I had not done much of anything one might consider holy or devout. I hadn’t even taken time to properly prepare myself which led to the crazy nature of my route to the phlebotomist.

Oddly, in my zig-zag around town to get to the first wrong lab, I had passed the actual home of these particular nuns and took note that there were several cars parked there for morning Mass. As I passed, I thought to myself that I should take some time to attend at Mary Field sometime…

Sometimes…God stops you in your tracks and slows you down. As I listened to each of my two waiting room companions, I was reminded that we all need to take time to listen. Sister JM smiled and told me about how she used to make the bread that became the Host. It was a few years since she had been able to do so, but she had fond memories of each step of the process. She talked of the “dampening” process and how the cutting had to be done at just the right time or you ended up with crumbs. Sister C chimed in with a loving recollection of how the whole process was so spiritual. Something as simple as making bread that would become the center of our Mass was such a satisfying experience that, years later, each would recall the events with deep reverence.

Using the gifts that God has blessed me with, I urged each on with a small question or request for clarity. These questions led Sister C to tell me of her love of music and, as she realized my comprehension, she began to question me. So, I told her about my oldest teenaged son who loves to compose music and his understanding that his gifts are something to be thankful for. She promised to pray for him and the guidance that would bear fruit from his efforts. Sister JM recalled her father who had favored the Gregorian sounds. She found joy in the fact that, although singing had not been a gift I had been granted, that my youngest son sang with a beautiful voice. She acknowledged my own father’s influence on the musical abilities of my sons because he sang Barbershop Style and that made her smile a smile of the memory of her father’s voice. Each of the nuns promised to pray for my family and wished me well. I promised to do the same.

Each of these beautiful women, their hands showing their age, but their eyes bright with the enthusiasm of a spiritual life, gave me a gift today. They stopped me in my tracks and returned my pace to normal again. They gave me something to think about when I feel I am too rushed to give thanks and praise to Our Lord. These women were on an errand of mercy today and they were not really aware of it. Or, perhaps they were well aware of their ministry. The next time I see them it will go something like this…Two nuns and a writer walk into Mass…

The Hill…

The Hill at Memorial Stadium in Terre Haute, Indiana.

The Hill at Memorial Stadium in Terre Haute, Indiana.

It isn’t about gardens today but about grass on a hill.  On the opposite side of the stands at Indiana State University’s Memorial Stadium is a grassy berm.  On football Saturdays you will find my nephew, Jeff, sitting in his chair intently watching.  Besides being a teacher he has been a football coach for many years while working with youth leagues through high school ages.  The fact that he has two sons who love the sport has just made teaching and coaching more fun, particularly on Saturday afternoons.

It is the “hill” that fascinates me.  As my brother, Jeff’s dad,  progressed through the stages of pancreatic cancer, no matter how soft the chair he brought to make the stadium seats more comfortable, he couldn’t control the sun.  It did not shine on those seats for very long on the Fall afternoons and he got cold no matter how insulated he was.

One weekend when Butch and I came up to Terre Haute to watch an ISU game that Jeff’s son, Brock, was playing in, my brother said I would find him on the hill across from the stands.  We were in the stands so I could see how the sun shined on Phil for much longer into the afternoon.  The next time we came up from Atlanta we hauled our chairs up to the hill to sit next to him. He was my big brother and I wanted as much sun on that hill to shine on both of us.

Last weekend we sat on the hill with Jeff watching his youngest son, Tsali play.  The sun felt very warm and comforting.  We know the spirit of my brother, Jeff’s dad, Tsali & Brock’s grandpa, is always there on the hill.  It was a warm Saturday afternoon.

Ditdo (aka Marianne Lough Volpert)

Rocky Mountain High Fourth of July…

 

Watching the fireworks burst directly in front of us was a sight to behold. “The Staff” from Long’s Peak Inn had climbed through the woods to a large boulder outcropping that offered a perfect bird’s-eye view of the show being staged from Estes Park below. The fact that we had toted a sparkling new stainless steel garbage can “borrowed” from the kitchen which was filled to a sloshy capacity with the traditional recipe of Hawaiian Punch and grain alcohol

Long's Peak Inn, Estes Park, CO.

Long’s Peak Inn, Estes Park, CO.

had no bearing on the shared mouth-gaping amazement that each of us seemed to feel. It certainly didn’t hurt, but the spectacle alone was enough to wow. Sort of made you…high. Our dude ranch had been around for a great many years and attracted guests and staff from all parts of the world. We offered the basic horseback riding, mountain hiking and trout fishing packages along with kid care and a full bar with knowledgeable tender, hot tub, solar heated swimming pool and in house bakery (that was me!) We welcomed guests on Sunday nights with a staff talent (or lack thereof) show. Kid counselors met the children and parents relinquished control to the fresh-faced crew sporting cowboy hats and western shirts. We participated in the tradition of square dancing and tried to make it look natural despite the fact that hardly a soul was actually from the western states. Those cowboys and girls took off for the summertime beach jobs as soon as the roads thawed. Each week, it took a tremendous effort by the staff to pull off the extensive activities schedule. Making the experience as close to authentic western dude ranch was important and we took our roles seriously. As much as we loved the experience, everybody needs a break; a midsummer’s night dream. Right? It can be agreed that the traditional halfway mark of summer for Americans is Independence Day. No matter what day of the week it might fall, July 4th is reason enough to celebrate before moving forward into the dog days of summertime. Our eclectic crew was no exception to the tradition of marking the event with flair, so plans were made and work was dispensed with in a fat hurry on that nearly sacred day. Being that about half of our staff had come to work for the summer from Great Britain, we Americans felt the need to ensure a memorable Independence Day that would rival any event that the mother country could provide. We did what any typical American kids would do, we mixed up an industrial-sized container of Hunch Punch and set forth to watch the fireworks. Earlier that day, we had cooked and served a traditional “burgers and dogs” barbeque for the guests at the ranch and then made certain that our new friends poured on the right amounts of ketchup, mustard, relish and onions. For my part, hailing from Atlanta, I made certain that the coleslaw was chopped finely enough to mimic that delicious hot dog topping made famous at The Varsity Drive-In located just outside the Georgia Tech campus. It was good eats. Sated, we all completed our cleanup duties and made fast tracks before dark to our predetermined boulder with blankets and whatever else besides the punch that might make for a wonderful Rocky Mountain High kind of Fourth of July… Everybody found somebody to lean against on that chilly outcropping and a feeling of real summer took effect on our group. Inevitably, someone produced a guitar and harmonica. Can’t be dude ranch staff without those tools. Just ain’t right at all. Just as inevitably, John Denver tunes began to serenade our quickly mellowing group. We did get treated to seeing it raining fire in the sky. There were friends around a campfire and whether anybody imbibed or not, everybody found a sort of Rocky Mountain High… Colorado, a great place for summer love and summer secrets. Hollywood could not have staged a better set for showing foreigners exactly what a college-aged American summertime is all about and nobody could have provided a better soundtrack than John Denver himself. Slowly, pairs began to drift off together down the mountain. The singing, strumming and harmony slowed and faded away with the smoke that trailed from the last of the rockets’ red glare. Real stars, their appearance masked by the man made sky show, began to twinkle along with the moonlight that illuminated the aspen path back to Highway 7. It was a path back to our daily routines of waiting tables, baking, frying, cleaning and entertaining an ever-changing group of tourists hungry for horseback riding and trout fishing in the high mountains of the Colorado Rockies that can be found in the colorful pages of travel brochures. But, for that one night, on July 4th 1986, a group of British and American dude ranch staff came together for an unforgettable Rocky Mountain July High.

Link

Strawberry Memorial Day

Grandpa Earl Volpert, Sr. WW II

Grandpa Earl Volpert, Sr. WW II

Memorial Day is a special day to be reserved for those service men who did not return home.

Butch’s dad, Earl Volpert Sr., did come home after serving as a medic in Italy in WWII.  Earl Jr. (Butch or Dado as he is better known) was two before his father held him.  He spent many years coaching the boys of St. Patrick’s Elementary the art of playing basketball.    He worked his way up through the ranks of the Terre Haute Fire Department.  After retirement from the THFD, he was the Asst. Director of Civil Defense in Terre Haute.  The Cuban Missile Crisis was ever bit as scary as the unrests of today

His joy was a premie named Beth.  When she got old enough to enjoy real food her favorite was strawberries.  We made the trip from northern Indiana to Terre Haute about every three months.  In the worst of Winter somehow he always found fresh strawberries for her arrival. This was the early ‘60’s, a far different grocery shopping world than today.  His house was full of several generations and not a lot of dollars. It is the memories that count in families.

In my multigenerational garden in Grayson, GA the strawberry plants have not produced well.  This Spring we took Jackson, Steve and Kim’s 4 yr. old, to the strawberry fields in Loganville to pick his own gallon.  Like his Auntie “B” they are his favorite food. However, yesterday I noticed that Jackson’s strawberry plant on his back deck has sprouted new tendrils and flowers.  My circuitous thinking says to me that on this Memorial Day it is Grandpa Volpert Sr.’s way of saying hello to a little strawberry loving fellow with the last name of Volpert.  Sr. died years before there was a Jackson, but it is the memories that count in families.

Marianne “Ditdo” Lough Volpert writes along with her daughter, Beth in the Multigenerational Garden. They live in Grayson, GA.

www.freelancebeth.com

 

Multigenerational Garden…Catherine’s Red Clay

“An hour of concentrated work does more to kindle joy, to overcome sadness and to set your ship afloat again, than a month of gloomy brooding.” Benjamin Franklin

From Ditdo today…

Pretty springtime peony

Pretty springtime peony

Earl’s (aka Butch or Dado) mother, Catherine, came to live with us in 1992. Her health had deteriorated to the point that even she was not comfortable living in Indiana by herself. It took some time for her to get used to no more driving, a different kitchen and a new set of doctors, but as the first two years progressed she began to feel better. She even began to see better as the Emory Eye Care folks began to reverse years of neglect from Grave’s Disease.

Iris from "up north" grows in the red clay of Georgia.

Iris from “up north” grows in the red clay of Georgia.

Back in Terre Haute the dirt was rich and black. Her small city plot was full of peonies, iris, roses and her son, Butch’s, gooseberries. In Grayson, Georgia it was hard red clay. Gardening here was a hit and miss proposition as I was still working full time. Then came June of 1994 and the tornado. We went to bed that night with 63 trees in the yard. We woke up at 3:00 a.m. with 3 of them in the living room and only 2 left standing in the yard.

It was time for Catherine to take on a project. After the house reconstruction phase the strip of concrete outside her bedroom, alias Georgia red, was designated hers. It took her a few Springs but today that 6 ft. by 24 ft. is full of her handiwork. Done, as she always did, on her hands and knees.

Yellow yarrow remind us each year of our Multigenerational Garden.

Yellow yarrow remind us each year of our Multigenerational Garden.

Catherine has been gone for 7 years now, but her spirit lives on through her hours of “concentrated work” and that have “kindled the joy” for us as we walk through her garden. The azalea, camellias, hydrangea, lilies, iris, ferns are all still there. There are no gooseberries but maybe one of her bird friends will help us out, but that will be another story.

What a lucky Ditdo am I.

Multigenerational Garden…Mother’s Day Musings

Ditdo is modeling her Easter bonnet complete with garden customization.

Ditdo in her garden.

From Ditdo…aka grandma/Marianne Volpert who is a regular contributor to this blog dubbed Multigenerational Garden…

Out my kitchen window the generations move on.  The lilac named Miss Kim, Beth gave to me is about done, but I see the first bud on Sharon’s peony and the iris that came from Grandma Catherine Volpert’s garden when she moved from Terre Haute to Grayson are in full bloom.

Plants and flowers represent so many special people.

Plants and flowers represent so many special people.

Kim is my daughter-in-law’s name. I love her for many reasons.  The most important one is that she has shared her husband and her son’s time so graciously with me. Beth is my daughter and even better, my friend. We share lots, most importantly my two older grandsons. Sharon was my sister-in-law with the emphasis on sister.   She was only 12 when I joined this family and  because neither one of us had sisters we made the relationship become what the best of sisters share. Cancer took her much too early in life.  Catherine was my mother-in-law. It was amazing to watch her become an independent woman. She didn’t attempt emancipation until she was in her ‘60’s but she went gung-ho then including getting a license to drive.  No sixteen year old ever felt the rush of freedom that being behind a car can give more than Catherine.  Alzheimers took that independence but it was a good twenty-plus year ride.

Daughter-in-law, daughter, sister-in-law, mother-in-law all there in the garden for me to see first thing as I am making the morning coffee.

What a lucky Ditdo am I.

Multigenerational Garden…wine bottle opener whine…

Two bottle openers, two methods…one result!

Two bottle openers, two methods…one result!

Ditdo frequently laments my trapdoor memory for all manner of useless and sometimes useful information. She says it is just heXX getting older and not being able to do things that we “younger” folks can do with ease…(yeah right…).

One of the categories that stands out in the long list of things I “cannot” do is our selection of wine bottle openers. We have all sorts, but two of them are used the most. One is your average, every day dollar store variety. You know…screw in, press down the vice and viola! you have an opened bottle of wine to cure your whine. The other is a source of constant consternation for me (the “younger”). It is one of those XO models that is supposed to be good for arthritic hands. My 71 year-old mom has no trouble WHATSOEVER utilizing this fancy tool to pop open a bottle of her favorite merlot or sauvignon blanc. She places the instrument upon the top of the bottle and within a second or two has her bottle open. I cannot operate the blasted thing to save my life. It completely confounds me beyond reason. I generally end up with a shredded cork and bits floating around in my chardonnay. This leads to having to strain the bits out using a method fully tested by my mother and me, but like I am apt to say…that is a totally different story.

So, in the meantime, I am often humbled to be forced to ask my mommy to open my bottle of wine. But, in the end, if there is a bit of whining to do, well, we do that equally well-mostly on the front piazza in our multigenerational garden where I will no doubt dredge up some sort of useless trivia from the depths of my brain  to take our minds off of the current subject of whine.